


I'm a Perfect Piece of Ass

by napricot



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, The Martian (2015)
Genre: Crack, Crossover, M/M, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7897978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/napricot/pseuds/napricot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I had to do some things, Mark, to get us funding for your rescue mission without sacrificing future Ares missions. I had to make some...deals, and leverage a lot of different relationships to put enough pressure on Congress to get funding. Wayne Enterprises helped a lot with that pressure.” </p><p>Mark narrowed his eyes at Vincent. There were some rather concerning euphemisms and elisions there. “I’m really grateful for all that, Vincent. But what does that have to do with me going to dinner with Bruce Wayne?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm a Perfect Piece of Ass

**Author's Note:**

> For #13. Title from The National's "All the Wine."

Mark had taken it as a given that NASA would basically own his ass when he got back to Earth. Not only had they spent an awful lot of taxpayer money to train him and get him to outer space, they’d also spent an inconceivably large amount of money to get him back home when it turned out that, whoops! He wasn’t tragically dead on Mars!

And that was fine, Mark was cool with that. He could smile for the cameras, do all the meet and greets and glad-handing to secure NASA more funding for the next Ares missions. He could give lectures and talks, he could be a pincushion and running experiment for NASA doctors.

All in all, Mark didn’t mind the “thank you and please give NASA more money” tour. For one thing, doing some handshaking, baby kissing, and speechifying was a small price to pay for being rescued from certain death on Mars. For another, he genuinely was grateful: to everyone at NASA and JPL who’d worked long hours and pulled scientific miracles out their asses to bring him home, sure, but also to all the other people of the world who’d tweeted and written letters and held up signs and been just plain invested in him coming back safe.

He was, in fact, a little embarrassed about just how grateful he was. Because he still woke up panicked and shaky sometimes, certain that he was abandoned millions of miles from home, with no one even aware he was alive. In the desperate moments after a nightmare, the sheer magnitude of the aloneness of that experience overtook him. The deep, practically existential horror hadn’t had time to gain real purchase in him when he’d been on Mars. He’d been too busy trying to stay alive, too busy working the problem, and there’d always been a problem. Ironically enough, that horror only hit Mark now that he was safely back on Earth, feet firmly attached to the ground he shared with seven billion other people. The NASA shrinks said it was normal.

Anyway, Mark was grateful. Mark was grateful when he was shaking senators’ hands and he was grateful when he was hugging beaming children in astronaut costumes and he was grateful when he looked out onto crowds of college students with shining, rapt faces. He was even grateful when the barista gushed at him for five minutes instead of just handing him his much-needed coffee. He’d started wondering if there was a limit to this gratitude, or if he’d just spend the rest of his life pathetically grateful for people and human contact.

Turned out, there was definitely a limit.

“You want me to what?”

Vincent Kapoor was trying to look professional and calm, but his mouth was settling into a grimace, and his big brown eyes were a mix of pleading and apologetic.

“Have a...private dinner with Bruce Wayne,” said Kapoor. That’s what he’d said before, but surely Vincent didn’t mean what Mark thought he meant. Because “private dinner with world’s most eligible bachelor” sounded an awful lot like a date.

“With, like, the rest of the Wayne Enterprises board, right?”

Mark’s next stop on the thank you tour was Gotham, for an already sold-out talk at Gotham University and for a meet and greet at Wayne Enterprises. Wayne Enterprises’ aerospace division mostly did defense contract work with the military, but when it had been all hands on deck to get Mark his resupply, and then to McGuyver the MAV, Wayne Enterprises had stepped up to bolster JPL’s straining resources, both human and monetary. Mark was, of course, grateful. Meeting with a bunch of corporate suits admittedly strained that gratitude a little, but he’d still happily have dinner with them.

“No. Just with Bruce Wayne.” Vincent pressed his lips into a thin line.

“Uh. Okay.”

Mark considered for a moment. Bruce Wayne was very rich and very famous, and every time he went out for a “private” dinner, it hit the papers and gossip blogs, because he was Bruce Wayne, and his dinner companions were always some combination of rich, famous, and very hot. Mark honestly didn’t know what the guy actually did, day to day, aside from be rich and famous. He was involved in Wayne Enterprises...somehow, but mostly he seemed to go to a series of fancy events and parties where he mildly scandalized the rest of the 1% by fucking his way through Gotham’s socialites. Wayne had a tragic backstory, he guessed, and seemed to do some charity work too. But nothing about the guy’s public profile suggested he’d be interested in a one-on-one dinner with an astronaut, even if that astronaut was Mark Watney.

“As you know, Wayne Enterprises assisted with the efforts to bring you home.”

“Uh huh. That’s why I’m going to that thing at their corporate headquarters in Gotham.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you understand. Wayne Enterprises assisted a lot. Like, a really lot.” Vincent was looking really intense now.

“Right. Are you gonna clarify, or…?”

“I had to do some things, Mark, to get us funding for your rescue mission without sacrificing future Ares missions. I had to make some...deals, and leverage a lot of different relationships to put enough pressure on Congress to get funding. Wayne Enterprises helped a lot with that pressure.”

Mark narrowed his eyes at Vincent. There were some rather concerning euphemisms and elisions there. “I’m really grateful for all that, Vincent. But what does that have to do with me going to dinner with Bruce Wayne?”

“The only thing Wayne Enterprises has asked for in exchange for that assistance has been a private dinner for Bruce Wayne, with you.”

“Me specifically? Because I’m not really Bruce Wayne’s usual dinner date type. Like, I’m not even the hottest Ares crew member.”

Vincent raised an eyebrow. “Who’s the hottest Ares crew member?”

Mark was spoiled for choice there, but Bruce Wayne was straight as far as he knew, and Lewis was married, so that left— “Johannsen?” He paused, considered that threesome sex tape featuring Bruce Wayne and a couple models that had leaked a few years back. “And/or Beck. I mean, come on, people literally call him McDreamy.”

“I’m going to tell Beth and Chris that you volunteered them for a threesome with Bruce Wayne.”

“Wait, no, do not do that—”

“Mr. Wayne specifically asked to have dinner with you.”

“Huh. Really? Okay.” Probably for the novelty or bragging rights or something. Or maybe he was secretly some sort of conspiracy theorist and wanted to ask him about aliens and UFOs. Mark had already run into more than a few of those. “Am I supposed to put out after dinner? Like, I know NASA owns my ass, but I didn’t think it extended to NASA being my pimp.”

Vincent looked intensely pained, but to Mark’s horror, didn’t immediately deny it. “Mark—”

“Oh my god, you _are_ pimping me out!”

“You are absolutely not obligated to have sex with Bruce Wayne.”

It had taken way too long for Vincent to say that though, which meant he definitely didn’t mean it.

“I should have stayed on Mars.”

* * *

So Mark went off to Gotham to Pretty Woman it up with one of the richest men on the planet. He had a couple days in Gotham before his dinner with Bruce Wayne, and his only obligations were the talk at Gotham U and the meet and greet at Wayne Enterprises HQ, so he had some time to wander around Gotham and take advantage of his swanky hotel room (courtesy Wayne Enterprises). Mark spent some of his free time doing some research on Wayne, and on Gotham, which apparently had some sort of crazed bat vigilante now? What the hell. Some seriously weird shit happened in Gotham. Like, this Batman guy was suspiciously well-equipped for being a vigilante that the Gotham PD officially disapproved of. That Batmobile (and it seriously pained Mark to call it that) didn’t exactly look like the kind of vehicle you could find on a dealership lot.

Bruce Wayne seemed relatively straightforward at least. There was the whole thing about his parents being shot in front of him when he was a kid—which, sad—but other than that, he seemed like your standard billionaire playboy philanthropist. He slept around a lot, did some obnoxious thrill-seeking type stuff, but did a fair amount of charity work too, and probably spent a frankly obscene amount of time in the gym to keep up his excessive physique. Mark lingered for a few minutes on the Men’s Health photoshoot of Wayne. Okay, maybe he appreciated the physique. If it came down to it, he could lie back and think of NASA, and it wouldn’t be an imposition or anything.

And hey, no matter what, dinner would probably be good. It was at a Michelin starred restaurant, and that was good, right? Really, if NASA was going to pimp him out, it could have been worse. Still, stranger danger, and what if Bruce Wayne was an ax murderer or something. He sent out a text to the crew: _having a fancy private dinner with BRUCE WAYNE tonight. If I don’t text you all by midnight then I’ve been ax murdered by a psycho billionaire and you all have to avenge me._ Rick texted back _k_. It was ass o’clock in the morning in Germany, so no answer from Alex. Beth sent him a barrage of questions about why he was having dinner with Bruce Wayne, while Chris just said, _USE A CONDOM._ Then, a couple minutes later, _if you don’t want to bang him, tell him you have space herpes. wtf is space herpes_ , asked Rick, to which Chris responded, _that’s classified_. Melissa ignored all the space herpes talk and just texted, _have fun, sweet talk him out of a lot of money for NASA_.

Thus assured of his crew’s tender concern for his safety, Mark got ready for his date with Bruce Wayne. It had…been a while, since he’d gone out with anyone not affiliated with NASA or JPL. And nerd dates were a lot different from billionaire playboy dates. Nerd dates didn’t require fancy suits, or frantically googling cutlery etiquette in the car on the way to the restaurant. Nerd dates didn’t require racking your brains for topics of conversation that weren’t related to a) space, b) plants, or c) that time you got stranded on Mars. Though presumably Bruce Wayne wanted to hear about that one.

* * *

Bruce Wayne definitely wanted to hear about that time he got stranded on Mars. He was listening with an intensity that, frankly, bordered on the creepy side, and which Mark hadn’t expected at all. The dinner had started out as expected, with Bruce ably carrying them through the standard small talk while Mark tried not to seem too much like an only-recently-reacclimated-to-people-other-than-his-crew hermit. The food was great, the wine was probably extremely expensive and very refined, not that Mark could tell the difference between it and three-buck chuck. And Bruce was hot, so all the standard slightly awkward first date type stuff was more than bearable.

When Mark judged that their small talk obligations had been satisfied, he said, “So, I’m guessing part of why you wanted to have dinner with me was to hear about Mars—”

“ _Yes_.” Bruce cleared his throat, took a measured sip of wine. “I mean, yes. Of course. Your ingenuity and perseverance were inspiring. I’d love to hear more about your experience, if you’re willing to share, of course.”

Mark was about to launch into the usual spiel, but considered his audience. “I’m sure you’ve seen all the interviews and my logs. Anything specific you want to know?” He smiled, hopefully charmingly. This was either an opening for Bruce to ask an inappropriate, innuendo-laden question, or to reveal whether there was something he actually wanted to know that wasn’t covered by Mark’s frankly exhaustive media tour.

“The modifications to the rover—how did you balance the necessity of heating without compromising your mileage per day?”

Mark blinked. That wasn’t the question he expected. He answered anyway, and he answered the question after that, and the one after that. The questions were a hell of a lot more detailed and science-y than he’d have expected from a Gotham socialite. Did Bruce have an engineering degree? Mark didn’t remember coming across that in his research. Engineering degree or not, Bruce was following along with ease, and making his own contributions to the conversation. Maybe this was a nerd date after all.

They were so caught up in conversation that Mark barely noticed when they got through the bottle of wine and the (excellent) meal. He was midway through an explanation of how he’d fixed the Hermes’ cooling problem on the trip back, complete with penciling circuit diagrams on the table cloth, when he noticed Bruce’s laser focus on his mouth, and how, somehow, they’d ended up wedged together on the same side of the table, pressed together side by side. Having noticed it, all thoughts of wiring slipped his mental grasp in favor of the intimate nearness of Bruce’s built body beside him.

“Is this—turning you on?” asked Mark, equal parts delight and suspicion.

Bruce kept his face set in its serious lines, and moved his hand to cover Mark’s. “Yes.”

“Engineering. Engineering in life threatening situations is turning you on.”

“Yeah. It’s a very specific kink. Don’t get much of a chance to indulge it, you understand.”

“None of those hot models I’ve seen on your arm so often have tales of engineering derring-do?”

“Shockingly, no.”

Huh. Mark wasn’t really sure who was doing the seducing at this point, and he didn’t care. He closed the scant distance between them to kiss Bruce. Bruce kissed back with no hesitation, and wow, Bruce Wayne was kind of an intense kisser. He went dirty and deep almost immediately, and it went straight to Mark’s cock. Mark made a somewhat embarrassingly needy noise, because goddamn, it had _been_ a while. NASA doctors had been up his ass basically the entire time since he’d stepped foot back on Earth, and between recovering and the attendant level of smothering scientific and medical observation, he hadn’t exactly found an opportunity to get laid. The prospect of logging and disclosing his sexual activity was frankly kind of a boner killer. But his libido was making its demands now, and Mark saw no reason to deny himself.

When they finally broke apart from the kiss, Mark said, “This is the part where I ask you: your place or mine?”

“How close is your hotel?”

“About ten minutes away.”

“Your place.”

* * *

They spent the drive to Mark’s hotel making out like horny teenagers in the limo after prom, but they managed to behave like adults on the way to Mark’s room, maintaining appropriate personal space and not erotically mauling each other at all. Mark took the opportunity to text the crew. _I’m about to bang Bruce Wayne, I’m pretty sure he won’t murder me_. He added some eggplant emojis in case that wasn’t clear enough. _Seriously, use a condom, god knows what kind of VD that guy has_ , texted back Chris, the worry wart. _I neither want nor require any more detail than that, Mark_ , said Melissa. He got thumbs up and praise hands emojis from Rick and Alex. Beth just texted back, _get that $$$$$$_.

When he looked up from his phone, Bruce looked amused.

“Just checking in with friends. Safety first,” said Mark with exaggerated seriousness.

“Of course,” replied Bruce.

The second they were through the door, they were all over each other, pulling clothes off, hands and mouths everywhere. Free of his finely tailored suit, Bruce’s body was a thing of brutal beauty, but Mark barely had a moment to appreciate it before Bruce was on him. Mark suffered a brief moment of insecurity; he was still thinner than he’d ever been, before Mars, and he had nothing on Bruce’s ludicrous Crossfit body. Bruce didn’t seem to care.

“I’m going to suck your dick, if that’s okay,” said Bruce as he gently pushed Mark onto the bed and tugged his pants off.

“Yeah, yup, that is fine with me!” said Mark, and then he didn’t say much intelligible at all because oh my god, Bruce Wayne sucked dick like a _champion_. Mark really wouldn’t have expected that, and also he didn’t think that was how this whole Pretty Woman scenario was supposed to work, but whatever. The heat of Bruce’s mouth and whatever magic he was working with his tongue were the best things Mark’s dick had felt in—wow, years, that was depressing. Fucking Mars.

When he was about to come, he patted vaguely at Bruce’s head and gasped out, “I’m going to—you need to—space herpes—”

Bruce pulled off, replacing his mouth with his—oh sweet jesus—roughly calloused hand, and Mark came in one long rush that felt nearly as satisfying as stepping foot back on Earth.

“Space herpes?”

“Just something Chris said, don’t worry about it. I’m pretty sure space herpes doesn’t exist anyway. Hey, you’re too clothed, take it off.”

Mark was still post-orgasm clumsy, so he did little more than pluck at Bruce’s fancy dress shirt while Bruce obligingly unbuttoned it and then pulled it and his undershirt off to reveal a really very ridiculously broad and fit chest. He had a scattering of salt and pepper hair on his chest and—were those scars? There were kind of a lot of scars.

“Not that you’re not sill super hot and all, but what the fuck, what’s the deal with all these scars? Are you in some sort of billionaire fight club?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “…Remember the first rule of fight club?”

“Oh, that you don’t talk about—right, yeah, okay,” said Mark, and shoved his hand down Bruce’s pants. The groan Bruce let out was pretty gratifying, and Mark set to work earning NASA that sweet, sweet Wayne Enterprises money. It wasn’t exactly a chore.

* * *

Mark was indulging in some post-coital, room-service provided fresh fruit while idly running his free hand over Bruce’s thickly muscled back when a blaring noise emitted from somewhere amid the wreckage of discarded of clothes. He nearly choked on a grape as Bruce made a freakishly fast dive for the phone. Bruce’s face had gone from smug satisfaction to stony seriousness with whiplash-inducing speed. What the fuck?

“Yeah,” he said into the phone. Mark guessed hellos were for plebes who weren’t Bruce Wayne. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Bruce, already hanging up and collecting his clothes. Too bad. Mark had been hoping for some morning sex.

“Duty calls?” asked Mark. He wasn’t sure what duty could possibly call at this hour of the night when you were a professional rich person, but whatever.

“Yeah, sorry. Thank you for this, though. I had a really good time.”

Mark frowned. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.” Bruce came back to the bed to give him a filthy, bruising kiss, then gave him the simultaneously sleazy and charming grin that had every socialite in Gotham eating out of his hand.

“Call me whenever you’re in Gotham,” he said, and left.

“Leave the money on the dresser,” Mark muttered to the empty room, then shrugged and popped another grape in his mouth.

* * *

Mark was on a flight back to Houston later the next day. Vincent should be pleased by the results of this leg of the media tour, he thought, as he read an article titled _WAYNE AEROSPACE TO PARTNER WITH NASA FOR JUPITER EXPLORATORY MISSION_. Mark checked on the news in Gotham next, curious about the local press’s reaction. But the headlines were dominated by ominous, grainy photos of Gotham’s own weirdo vigilante. _ARKHAM ESCAPE FOILED BY THE BATMAN_. Huh. There’d been a jailbreak on Mark’s last night in Gotham. It was exactly the kind of story people would expect from the stereotype of crime-riddled, seedy Gotham.

He read the article, watched some of the phone footage of the (ugh) Batmobile roaring down the streets of the Gotham. Huh, the jailbreak had apparently been right around the time Bruce had left the hotel, Mark hoped he hadn’t gotten caught up in the traffic mess from the Batman and first responders—wait. A series of disparate facts coalesced into an improbable hypothesis in Mark’s mind. Bruce Wayne: surprisingly into engineering. Batmobile: an excellent if over the top example of engineering, and way too pricy for your average mugger-catching vigilante. Bruce Wayne, again: scarred like some sort of cage fighter and/or soldier.

Huh.

Maybe Mark would ask him about it when he booty called Bruce the next time he was in Gotham.


End file.
